


Fun Ghoul of the Final Ghoul Scions

by KISSHIMALREADY



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cool World AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fun Ghoul in a not-Killjoy world, Ghoul!Frank, Ghouls, Halloween, High School, M/M, Other, Sexy Times, Smut, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural - Freeform, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KISSHIMALREADY/pseuds/KISSHIMALREADY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude..." Mikey croaked. "You just gave birth to a fucking demon-alien thing."</p><p>"That's what you're calling it? Because the way I see it, I just threw up every organ in my body," he cried, arms and legs giving out beneath him until he dropped on the grass with a dull thump.</p><p> </p><p>(A love story involving demonic dogs, lovestruck ghouls, and very disturbed news anchors.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something's Very Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: mercilessly-disgusting descriptions of Gore and bodily harm involved in this chapter.

**Halloween**

 

Mikey was used to watching his older brother pace in his room late at night. Four out of five times, it was all because of some deadline that Gerard's procrastination succeeded in overthrowing, his nearly-fatal case of insomnia, or his failure to create a new storyline for his comic. His sporadic muttering and movement usually lasted for about two hours until he'd stop so abruptly it'd appear he'd slammed into an invisible wall. Then came the conclusions.

_Maybe I can get Ray's brother to lend me the chapter seven outlines for Ms. Grove' s class._

_I'll just microwave some hot chocolate and fall asleep to SyFy or something, want some?_

_Hmm... Maybe this issue can be the one where Fun Ghoul finally faces his fears?_ _Yeah, like, some spider people...things? Quick, hand me that marker._

Except, none of those conclusions made themselves known, nor did they seem to be planning to. It had been well over three hours, two made-for-tv movies later, until Gerard said what had been repeating in Mikey's head already.

"Something's wrong, Mikey. Something's very wrong."

"Really? Couldn't tell," he deadpanned, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. It made that horrible squishy eye sound that he knew for a fact Gerard hated but he did it anyway.

"I still feel, I dunno, weird, like I'm going to be very sick, and I feel like I'm burning up, but I'm restless and don't wanna stop moving, y'know?"

Mikey remains quiet and observant, panic beginning to bubble in his gut at the thought of Gerard freaking out on drugs. Gerard, on the other hand, could feel his gaze following him back-and-forth, and he already knew what was on his mind, the second those words left his mouth. He knew he sounded like he was on some insane high. He thought about babbling a little more, explaining himself more thoroughly, but he was way too caught up in his own discomfort to put in the effort.

"You said the same thing the night before Dad took you to the hospital, and that was just two days ago. You guys said everything was okay, did you lie? Did Dad lie-,"

"No, Mikey, that's what's wrong, I don't know why." Gerard takes a deep breath his steps more jerky and rapid now as he struggles to explain.

"Okay, look... Physically, according to the doctor, I'm fine, but... I feel like I'm dying, but I don't really feel weak, and I'm, like, mentally exhausted for some reason? It's- But I can't stop moving and don't give me that look, I'm not on drugs!"

Mikey held out his palms, which was Way Sign Language for Gerard to both calm the fuck down and back the fuck off, because he did aggressively start to advance on him, whether he was aware of this or not. Despite the abrupt moodswing, Mikey felt himself relax enough for the two of them. Anyone could easily lie, but this was Gerard, who told him with explicit honesty when he had slipped up and took something or drank a few too many shots of whiskey. He trusted his big brother, and the trust only locked solidly in place when he remembered he'd been out with Gerard pretty much all Hallow's Eve. Besides, it couldn't be too much of a stretch to believe in Gerard's phantom sickness. So Mikey squared his shoulders, sat up straighter on Gerard's bed, and put his game face on.

"So, what's different tonight, then? You were like this on Tuesday, and then you were fine the next morning."

The older shrugged and slid a fresh layer of sweat into his black tangles of hair. There were pit stains forming on his gray t-shirt, and Mikey chose to ignore how clingy Gerard's boxers had become and the tragic, hilarious noises he made after stubbing his toe on the bed frame because he was obviously stressing. And Mikey was there to help...and maybe convince him to take him to Ray's senior Halloween party because there was no way he was showing up without an invite, alone.

"There's something just moving under my skin, like a vibration, like... You know that feeling you get right here?" Gerard asked, raising his chin to run some fingers beneath his throat. "That feeling, right before you're about to throw up, that makes you start gagging a little? That's what it feels like, except... all over."

He rested his hands on his hips when he finally managed to stop pacing and face Mikey. He was waiting for an answer, but Mikey didn't know where to start. First off, he wanted Gerard to sit down or grab a damn towel to wipe off the sweat. He thought of addressing the fact that Gerard was panting now, nearly out of breath. He had the urge to go the indifferent route and mutter "maybe you just need to take a shit and lie down" and go up to his room and sleep. Except, none of these things mattered because-

"Holy shit, Gee, your fucking nose is bleeding!"

The two of them rushed to the basement bathroom, but because the sink tended to flood, Mikey had to turn on the shower to wet a rag for Gerard, who sloppily pulled toilet paper to his nose with shaky hands. He leaned his head back with the finesse of a young man who's used to getting punched in the face.

"You're on coke, aren't you!" Mikey shouted over the running water and groaning pipes. He couldn't believe that he'd been lied to, straight to his face, and struggled not to punch the thin walls next to the stand-in shower.

"NO!"

"Your fucking nose is bleeding, and you sound fucking crazy! I'm calling Mom and Dad-,"

"Mikey, please, don't call them, I-I'm telling you the truth, just..."

There was a pause as Gerard choked on his words. Except, he didn't exactly choke solely on words, because before they knew it, he was leaning over the small sink to let blood spill out of his mouth, enough to completely fill up a coffee mug, Gerard noted.

"Gerard?" Mikey asked quietly. He was so caught up in what he was seeing that he didn't notice the water was starting to run onto the bathroom floor, soaking their socks. Gerard was only able to catch his breath for three seconds before he really threw up, this time with a horrible sob. The content wasn't like anything Mikey had ever seen before. He saw what was obviously the Lo Mein they ate throughout their Friday night and what was now a Saturday morning; there was the red glistening of what was obviously blood; however, what they couldn't figure out was the black stuff. It had a similar consistency as oil, and seemed to bubble and fizz over the sound of retching and water and old plumbing. The smell reminded them of burnt rubber and rotten dairy.

"Gross," Gerard cried, his face coated with sweat and tears, blood continuing to drip from his nose when he had given up trying to stop it. He cried for his parents as he leaned onto the porcelain, and Mikey cringed. No matter what his older brother had gone through before his eyes, never did he see him cry for "mommy" or "daddy" to help him, and it was fucking terrible to witness.

"We're calling the hospital, I'll be right back-,"

"Don't!"

"What?"

"I'm fine," Gerard mutters, standing straight up and yanking the rag out of Mikey's hand before turning off the shower. He ran it down his face without bothering to wring out the excess water, but his blank face showed that he seemingly didn't care. Mikey blinked at him as if he... Well, as if he had just thrown up a bunch of blood and shit and suddenly decided he was fine.

"You're not fine, what the fuck, you just... Threw up some crazy shit!"

"You can't call anyone, you can't tell Mom and Dad. You don't have to, I'm alright," Gerard said in a calm voice. He looked almost bored, though still exhausted, and if it weren't for what looked like a murder scene in the sink, Mikey would have believed him. It was like he was...possessed. Not exactly possessed by something, but possessed to say these things, to assure he was fine. Mikey shook his head, backing out farther into the bedroom, towards the stairs leading up to the kitchen.

"Gee...You just lost a lot of blood....and where it's coming from, I have no fucking idea, but you're clearly not thinking right, so I'm getting help, okay? Here, sit down, I'll be right down-,"

"NO!"

This time, Gerard takes hold of his brother's arm with as much force he could muster, stopping him from making it all the way to the door.

"Take me outside. I need air," he demanded, motioning towards the double doors slanting above the staircase in the opposite corner that lead to the backyard.

 


	2. Nobody Likes a Martyr

**Two Weeks Before Halloween**

 

It was Issue #19 that changed everything. Gerard was going to kill off Fun Ghoul. His hero had fulfilled his ultimate goal, restoring Jerney to its rightful state. A land, a world, void of zombies, spider people, and ill-minded beings. He had conquered many circles of Hell and their occupying kings. The vampires had been burned, souls had been restored-- or in some cases, transported to Hell, where they belonged. The only unnatural beings that tainted the surface of the post-apocolyptic world were Fun Ghoul and Scumbone. They no longer belonged there, nor did they belong in the underworld. So Fun Ghoul had to die, once and for all.

"But, like... How? Who would kill him? He's practically undefeatable. I mean, I know he wouldn't kill himself just because he no longer fit in, that's just..."

Mikey trailed off uncomfortably as his brother's face fell. They both knew what he was going to say. Stupid. Cowardly. Selfish. All words Gerard's heard countless times from his family and acquaintances, from anyone who dared to bring up the issue on television or in school. It had already been two years, but the idea of being reprimanded still made the teenager cringe.

Mikey sighed and finally said, "He just doesn't seem like a martyr, Gee."

"I know..."

They both knew this. Fun Ghoul never gave up, nor did he look at himself as something that had to disappear. Sure, he was an outsider, but he never felt like he didn't belong in Jerney. The people needed him, even if they didn't realize it.

"Look, before you make any stupid decisions, talk to Schechter. He'll know what to tell you. He always does."

"Yeah. You're right," Gerard sighed, tapping his pencil eraser on the edge of the page, staring at a blank grave he just shaded.

"So, no self-sacrificing?" Mikey pushed. He leaned across the lunch table, lazily toying with the pasta salad on his tray, to put himself in Gerard's view.

"Promise."

"Good," the sophomore said with a smile on his face. Something about his satisfied tone make Gerard feel like there was something more in that last exchange, something personal, but he was too distracted by the looks his classmate Ray was trading with his younger brother across the cafeteria to dwell on it.

 

_Mr. Schechter had been there since the very beginning, those times in junior year study hall when Gerard would sketch out badass comic characters and shoot ideas around with Mikey by the teacher's desk._

_"How about you make the main guy something? Like a zombie?" Mikey had asked, taking in the rugged appearance of Gerard's slightly-attractive male character. The sketches of him were rough, but the details were essentially always the same: a bit on the short side, a devious smirk, big eyes under a sexy pair of curved lines for his eyebrows. Oh, and some variation of tattoos._

_"Nah. I want him to kill zombies, not be one."_

_"Vampire?"_

_"Lame."_

_"Fuck off, you love vampires."_

_"Yeah, but how many vampires and vampire slayers lead stories?" Gerard asked, scribbling out possible names and themes and creatures. He was just about to put it off for another day and start on a reading for Chemistry I, until their study hall instructor and the English III teacher Mr. Schechter called them out above the general chatter of the room. They prepared to put their things away and start doing actual school assignments, but the man simply said, "How about a ghoul?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"If you want him to kill zombies..." Schechter began, looking sheepish for obviously listening in on their conversation._

" _Oh shit-I mean, yeah," Gerard smiled, Mikey's matching. "He could eat the zombies! It can take place in Jersey-No, Jerney, kind of an industrial wasteland version of Jersey."_

_"Sweet," Mikey nodded. Schecter quickly stood from his desk to join the two students at their conjoined desks, no longer pretending to not be intrigued by the intricate sketches and outlines Gerard began jotting down._

_"He could, like...travel from cemetery to cemetery, through graves. And he'll use a chrome shotgun that shoots something other than bullets," Gerard continued in his airy, far-away voice, a clear sign that his mind was somewhere else producing a million thoughts per second. "It can shoot demons' blood, and that'll trap his enemies' souls and sink them down to Hell."_

_"That's genius, Gerard," Mikey remarked, watching him draw a strange wardrobe on the character, consisting of an army green leather vest and dirty, mustard, stripy top. His black hair is discheveled and almost reaches his shoulders, and, as always, there were those tattoos, taking up both of his arms. "Hey, give him some New Jersey tats."_

_"Yeah," Schecter grinned, letting his eyes fall over the other sketches he'd been missing out on during previous study hall sessions. "What about his backstory?"_

_The Way brothers weren't exactly surprised that this was the first question Mr. Schecter asked. He was, after all, the best and most-awarded English teacher in the school, and if there was one thing he loved, it was a good backstory._

_"I'm not sure yet, um... He could just be the last of his kind?" Gerard started, watching the two for any protest or critique, but their interested expressions spurred him on even further. "Like, the demons of Hell decided to end the world once and for all with a zombie apocolypse-,"_

_"The Uprising of the Dead," Mikey added, referring to the list of possible issue titles Gerard wrote down in the corner of his U.S. History syllabus._

_"Yeah, the Uprising. They needed it to be easy, so they killed all of the ghouls, to protect the zombies, and he was the only one left. He could be called Ghoulian."_

_"Ghoulian?" Schechter asked with disgust._

_"He's right, that sucks, Gee."_

_"Hmm... A normal name? Like, Ash, but... uh, Frank?"_

_"Frank. You want to name him Frank?" It was Mikey's turn to look disgusted and annoyed. "Ash is a human, he's allowed to have a normal name. Why would a ghoul have a name like Frank?"_

_"Ugh, I don't know!"_

_"He looks like a fun character, doesn't look as serious as most ghouls do. How about Fun Ghoul?" Schecter offered._

_"Fun Ghoul?" Gerard echoed reluctantly, letting the words roll around his tongue, writing it in a practice speech bubble to see how it looked on paper._

_"Fun Ghoul," Mikey smiled. "I like that. It's kind of gross, too, sounds like fungal, you know?"_

_"Yeah... Fun Ghoul. I like that, it's simple. It fits," Gerard grinned, just before the class bell rang. They gathered up his materials, and Brian urged them to hurry to class on time, but not before he made Gerard promise to keep him updated on his comic book_.

 

"So, the last issue, number eighteen..." Brian Schechter, who had become more of a friend than a teacher over the year, began. Gerard tensed.

"Yeah?"

"It's wonderful."

Immediately the student felt his shoulders relax as flattery and relief spread throughout his body. Brian was not a fan of the fifth issue, in which Fun Ghoul got side-tracked in Hell while grave-travelling for absolutely no reason. One of the kings, Cai, ordered him to murder a traitorous demon by the name of Hambone, in order to be released from his shackles, being that the demons in Cai's circle preferred others to do their dirty work. Luckily, because Fun Ghoul couldn't bring himself to kill Hambone, the demon helped him escape. Brian called bullshit. Sure it was an okay issue, but they both knew Gerard had no idea what direction he was going with it, that the random storyline was irrelevent.

Then, after weeks of ruthless criticizing and brainstorming, the student decided to give Fun Ghoul a sidekick. In the sixth issue, after jumping through Hell's Jerney gateway, he emerged through a grave in Grunvil Cemetery just to be surrounded by humans. They were troublemakers, frightened but dangerous, and had taken over the cemetery, leaving unfortunate humans' heads stuck on the spikes of the iron gate's tips, shouting obscenities and threats as they waved bloody weapons at Fun Ghoul. Armed only with his beloved knife, the weak ghoul was just about to get his head chopped off when a small ratty dog crawled out of the grave after him and barked so lethally that the humans' heads exploded, bursting like balloons. Fun Ghoul nearly jumped at the awful sound, but was physically unfazed.

The dog, Gerard later revealed, had been the traitorous demon Fun Ghoul was ordered to kill, Hambone the Necromancer. When Hambone rebelled against his fellow demons during the Uprising of the Dead, he had been turned into a pet for Cai and his followers. Thus, he became Scumbone. Throughout the series, he became very useful for Fun Ghoul. The demon dog sniffed out ripe corpses for Fun Ghoul to feed on, digging his small but talloned paws above a fresh grave, or sniffing out an unlucky victim's body wasting in a ditch somewhere after a random battle. The dog was a danger to humans, but only when humans were a danger to Fun Ghoul.

"Thank you."

"But, now that he's conquered his fear and saved everyone, you want him to die?"

"Well...maybe? Not exactly."

"What does Mikey think about it?" The faculty member asked, locking his classroom door to avoid interruption. Gerard burst into his room as soon as school ended, waving his panel outlines around like a mad man, and Brian was more than willing to replace first semester test grading with his favorite student's comic book.

"Mikey doesn't want him to die."

"And you do?"

"No. Of course not."

There's a long stretch of silence as Brian's eyes scan the last edited page Gerard worked on, eyes finally landing on the grave Fun Ghoul and Scumbone climbed into.

"You know what's funny, Gerard? Of all the opportunities you've had, you never gave Fun Ghoul a love interest. Not even a hint of one. In fact, he's never shown attraction to any of the women in here, and there have been plenty of busty, beautiful women."

"He's a ghoul."

"Well, sure, but... I think this may tie in with why you don't want to publish this," Brian said, leaning back to rest his feet on his desk. Gerard rolled his eyes, familiar with Brian's theories on Gerard's relationship with Fun Ghoul of the Final Ghoul Scions.

"And why do you think it is," he drawled in a bored tone. Even though he'd nearly mastered the act of coming off indifferent, Brian knew him well enough to pick up on his curiosity. Because try as he may, even Gerard couldn't figure out why he needed to keep making the comics. He definitely didn't want to publish them. It didn't seem right. They felt too precious to him. When he returned to high school, after the incident where his depression reached its worst, the creation of Fun Ghoul was his vice, the only thing Gerard allowed himself to confide in, other than Mikey.

His classmates had been uncomfortable with his return, or downright confused. It was hard enough facing them everyday, but the idea of them all knowing and gossiping made it even worse, because there was no way they understood.

_God, the town's making it seem like he was bullied or something._

_Why is there always that weirdo feeling sorry for himself for no reason, fucking emos..._

_Hey, maybe his family found out he sucks dick._

Gerard had to admit that most of their complaints were true. He didn't go to that ridiculous drama sitcom high school where football jocks shoved misfits into lockers. He'd only seen them do that once, and that's because it was a friend of theirs, all of them laughing afterwards. Yes, he was out, but so were a few other guys in school. They were way more effeminite than Gerard could ever attempt to be, and even they were put off by him, despite the lingering stares they gave him in the hallways. And his family did find out he prefers male parts to lady parts, but, no matter what, they still absolutely loved him.

But Gerard was suffering from depression. None of those things mattered. And upon returning to school, the only person he could look to was Fun Ghoul. When the comic hero wasn't starring in a storyline, sometimes Gerard drew him storming into one of his classes and taking him away to explore Jerney. Or Fun Ghoul simply smiling back at him from the page, sending him a silent "good luck at school" before he began class. Suddenly, a year and a half had gone by, and though Gerard had made a few acquaintances and the awkwardness of his past had begun to fade into the pile of "remember that one kid did this?" with countless other stories, he still found comfort in Fun Ghoul. The fact of the matter was...

"You want Fun Ghoul to yourself."

"W-What?" Gerard whispered, his face burning.

"You don't want to share him with anyone, you want him to yourself, don't you?"

"That's not true, I share him with you and Mikey. Plus, that's weird. It's not like he's real or something."

"That's only because Mikey and I helped you make him. And trust me, it's not that weird. There's an artist in Germany, he sculpts the same woman, Greta, every month, doing something in his house. He sculpts her doing dishes in the kitchen, one is of her sitting at the dining table reading a book. He even has one of her in the bedroom, brushing her hair in front of the dresser, like she's about to go to bed in a few minutes. They're all lifesize, realistic. He has over twenty of them now, spread around his mansion, so she's in every room."

"Wow, did he sculpt her on a toilet taking a crap, too? Brian, that's not only weird, but fucking creepy. Fun Ghoul's not Greta, and I'm not some crazy lovestruck German. I'm a bored kid in New Jersey who happens to love drawing gory comics."

"Okay, that was a freaky example, but... writers and artists alike have fallen in love with their characters, in many ways, for endless reasons, sometimes literally."

"So you're saying that I only want to kill Frank because I don't want anyone to else to have him," Gerard frowned, slightly amused by the theory. Only, Brian kept a straight face from across the desk.

"I'm saying that, of all the saving he's done and all the victories he's had...he's never been given the chance to be happy. Even before the Uprising, he was searching for an answer to his existence, a reason to keep going, but now he's back to that stage in his life."

"That's what Scumbone's for-,"

"No no no, Scumbone's not enough. Scumbone can't provide his much-needed complacency."

Gerard sighed, ready to give up on this conversation once and for all.

"Look, I can spend hours listing off superheroes and series that didn't need a stupid romance. What, so your advice is draw in a busty babe and make them have climactic sex and end it with him and his dog and her falling asleep in a grave with smiles on their faces?"

"No, I'm saying...I'm saying you need to take time from this right now. At least this issue. I want you to keep him in that grave, and to think about what you want him to find on the other side, not what you feel like Mikey and I would want to him to find. Alright?"

"Alright," Gerard grinned, letting Brian gather and pack his work into his messenger bag. 

 


	3. Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mercilessly-disgusting descriptions of Gore and bodily harm involved in this chapter.

**Monday: Five Days Before Halloween**

 

"Hey, you! Gerard, right?"

Gerard snapped his head up at the call, dropping his felt-tip pen somewhere in the grass, and was more than shocked to see Ray Toro climbing the bleachers towards him with a determined look on his face. Gerard's worked with him in Biology II before, as well as exchanged small talk with him in his current study hall, but never had be been approached for out-of-class reasons. He figured it had to do with the Halloween dance. Whenever a school function came up, classmates and teachers knew to bombard Gerard for a specific poster or decorations. He even got a lot of recognition for his pieces, but that was as far as his social status went.

"Yeah?" Gerard squinted, a bit wary of the sudden approach. He'd learned to communicate better with people, his social anxiety still going strong, but it was still a little hard to relax and stop his hands from sweating and clenching into nervous fists.

"What are you drawing?" He asked, leaning over the sketchbook after taking a seat next to Gerard's Chucks. He instantly pulled the drawings out of view, blushing at the idea of Ray seeing his anatomical, detailed drawings of their fit classmates running track after school, especially of the one with the emphasized torso and big curly fro. He wasn't perving, and he knew he wasn't perving, but Ray didn't know that, and he didn't exactly know Ray.

He wasn't sure what he expected Ray to do, but he didn't expect him to smile big and bright at Gerard and sit back to observe the guys still running, not at all fazed by Gerard's complete lack of skills in making friends.

"My hair's not that big when I run, for future reference," he commented, making Gerard blush even more.

"Sorry..."

"No, don't be, you're really good. I saw what you drew for the annual bake sale last week, those cupcake creatures were hilarious," Ray grinned. It was so open, so welcoming, Gerard couldn't stop himself from returning it, and he relaxed just a little.

"Thanks."

"So, you're friends with that Mikey kid, right?"

"I'm his brother."

"Oh!" Now it was Ray's turn to flush a deep red, which mainly just took over the tops of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

"That's kind of why we have the same last name," Gerard bravely added.

"I see. Mikey Way..." Ray muttered, seemingly to himself. "Well...Um... Does he-I mean, do you guys have plans for Halloween?"

If Gerard didn't know any better, he'd think Ray was hopeful.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"Well, I'm having a Halloween party for the senior class, and, well, I thought I'd invite you two."

And sure Gerard wasn't an expert on reading people, but Ray was definitely hopeful, with his big eyes and lip-chewing. Not to mention, he didn't miss all of those curious looks his brother and Ray gave each other for the past few months, but he couldn't stop the paranoia from buzzing through his mind at the offer. 

"Why?" He repeated.

"Well...I wanted-,"

"Is it because you wanna bone my brother?" Gerard asked slowly, wincing at the idea.

"No! No no-,"

"Because he's not a senior, you know. He's a sophomore-,"

"I know, it's not like that, I swear. Just...I see him at parties a lot and...He seems really cool. I'd really like to know him."

Gerard expected a line like that to sound wolfish, make him cringe, but coming from Ray Toro, it just sounded painfully sincere. Not that it really surprised him. Ray Toro was nice, popular, adaptive. He knew almost everyone, and basically everyone was his friend; and those who weren't his friend wanted to be. Even Gerard, which was funny because Gerard couldn't recall what made him start to suddenly pay attention to Ray, or why it was so easy for him to smile back at Ray the first time they had a class together. After a moment of pondering, Gerard finally gave in and reached into his bag.

"Fine. But!" Gerard added, cutting off the excited grin that spread across Ray's face. "Don't get your hopes up too much. I'm not sure he's actually interested in dating guys, Ray. So, you know...be careful, alright? Don't force anything-,"

"I won't, I promise I won't," Ray nodded, still unable to conceal his huge smile, his full pink lips spreading beautifully under his dampened, brown curls of hair. The sight of someone being that happy to meet Mikey made Gerard's heart skip a beat, and he chuckled at the fact that he was basically pimping out his little brother as he felt around for another pen to get Ray's contact information. He finally found one at the bottom of the bag, and carefully wrote down the address, time, and phone number Ray eagerly offered. At one point, he even insisted on giving his email address, but Gerard kindly reminded him that no one in high school, especially Mikey, communicated through personal email, not unless they worked as office staff. This realization made Ray blush for the third time before he rushed off to the locker room with a flustered "see ya".

Gerard smiled after him, and after a glance at his watch told him Mikey's band practice was coming to an end, he decided to begin packing his things up to head home. This would have gone more quickly if he had been paying attention to how he picked up his open messenger bag, because he practically shook out the contents to spread out on the grass about seven feet below his spot on the bleachers, the autumn wind already tossing some papers around. Slipping between the metal steps with the only agility he'd ever display on the athletic field, he made hurried grabs for his homework and notes and doodles, able to collect ninety percent of them before the wind got worse. The heavy items, like his utensils and phone and books, he stuffed into his bag last, his left knee feeling wet in the grass as he kneeled down.

Just when he felt he had everything he dropped, he froze, staring down at a pebble about the size of his index fingernail. It was so small, anyone easily could have missed it, only it appeared to glow beneath the shadows of the blades, shimmering and white. It looked almost like a glass bead, how shiny and clean it was, and it was too narrow to be a lost marble. Clearly, it had fallen out of Gerard's bag, but there was absolutely no way he could place it.

Still kneeling, Gerard picked it up with his thumb and middle finger and brought the pebble up close to his eyes to examine it more closely. There were metallic symbols etched into the surface, so tiny they could have been dots, but so unmistakably detailed they were hard to ignore. The pebble was very warm in his fingers, despite the chilly air, and felt oddly soft, like it was subtly responding to the squeezes he gave it. Testing out how solid it was, Gerard gave it a harder squeeze, and suddenly a thick white cloud of dust had taken its place, shooting into his eyes and nose before he coughed.

He clutched his chest as his body fell forward, failing to wave the remaining pebble dust away. The inhalation made his nose and eyes burn, and within seconds, his mind felt foggy as his heartbeat seemed to slow down under his palm. His limbs ached and became numb, failing to let Gerard use them as he allowed the rest of his body to slump down in the grass next to his bag. He coughed a little more, the first few feeling scratchy and fierce, but eventually, his breathing became normal again, and the coughing fit slowed to a stop. His eyes and nose felt tingly, but back to how they felt before, if not better.

When he finally came to, sitting up to look down at his bag of retrieved items, he frowned and wondered why exactly he had ended up sitting on the grass when he had already gotten his things. There were fleeting memories of him coughing just seconds before, of him reaching for something after grabbing his last notebook, but he was sure it was just a random misplaced image, something he daydreamed earlier. He had dropped his things and that was all. Shaking off the strange feeling, he headed for the school's main building, ready to drive Mikey home.

 

Gerard dreamt of Fun Ghoul that night, for the first and only time. The eighteen year old found himself in Belle Pointe Cemetery, just eighteen blocks down from his house. Aside from the glowing full moon, it was the darkest night Gerard had ever seen. Ominous shadows washed over the graveyard, and the crackling crackling branches sounded from the woods nearby, but he knew he shoudn't be frightened. So he sat at the end of a long rectangle of freshly-broken-up soil, a blank gravestone at the head. He was waiting for something. For someone.

Suddenly, not questioning how he knew to do it, Gerard leaned forward and held out his right hand. The grave pulsated beneath him before a tattooed, calloused hand emerged and aimlessly waved around before clasping onto Gerard's. It was hot, rough, and strong. With a grin, Gerard transferred his body weight backwards, pulling Fun Ghoul farther out of the ground until the creature crawled out on his own. Within the blink of an eye, he was hovering over Gerard, a matching grin of satisfaction on his face as the teen lay on his back. 

Fun Ghoul was beautiful. His brown eyes were shining down at Gerard, searching and relieved, and he smirked with lips of a vibrant, fleshy pink, pulling them behind his teeth to control his smile. His warm breath hit Gerard's face with something indistinct, a scent Gerard knew he'd never be able to pinpoint. The teenager's heartbeat sped as he reached up to hold Fun Ghoul's face in his hands, taking in the face he'd been drawing for so long, of the character he'd spent hours and hours creating stories for. Fun Ghoul's body felt unnaturally light yet realistically heavy on top of his. There was a sound between humming and a bark, close-by but muffled, but the two of them were so caught up in each other's gaze that it went ignored.

"You're here," Gerard whispered. "I've been waiting for you."

They were happy, exhausted, elated, so much that they didn't move from the comfort of each other's embrace to get off of the damp grass as it drizzled. The wet wind carried their light laughs, alongside soggy leaves and whistling of the trees. Gerard knew something something was in store for them, was looking forward to something, and it made me him want to burst out of his skin, it made him want to scream, but before he could figure it out, he was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and his blankets have been kicked to the floor beside the bed.

Fuck.

 

**Halloween Continued**

 

"Gerard. Gerard! What are you doing?" Mikey asked shakily as Gerard dragged him up the concrete stairs to unlock the wooden doors. His grip on Mikey's arm felt desperate and clammy, knuckles even whiter than his already pale skin. The younger brother tried to wriggle out of the hold, but Gerard only held onto him tighter, and yanked Mikey more aggressively. Not in an angry manner, more like a young man frightened of being left alone, Mikey thought.

"I need to get outside, Mikey. I need air, I can't breathe down here," Gerard gasped. Within the few seconds it took to cross the room from the bathroom to the stairs, Gerard had returned to his sweating, shaking, must-breathe stage, only worse. He breathed as if there was a fist clamping around his throat, squeezing it. It scared the shit out of Mikey, whose mind was still in the bathroom, gaping at the sink.

He was in a light state of shock, barely even registering they had made it outside until he felt the stinging cold of the October wind whipping around them. Gerard gasped like he had emerged out of a body of water, pulling in lungfuls of the air around them. He let Mikey go to collapse on all fours in the middle of their backyard, the relief of having oxygen quickly switching to painful overexertion. Mikey knew he needed to run back inside, or run somewhere, to call an ambulance, but he couldn't make himself move, watching as his brother practically screamed as the wind grew stronger and whistled more loudly. It was strong enough to swallow their voices, to shove Gerard's hair out of his flushed face and reveal an expression of pure misery and pain.

Then, just as the teenagers had expected but worried, the vomiting picked up again, this time in full force. Red and black liquid splattered between Gerard's hands in projectile, his body contorting as if tranforming. For a second, Mikey wondered if he was witnessing a werewolf transformation, but quickly realized it was just Gerard's body trying to adjust to the torture of what was shooting out of his body. The older brother was all sobs and begging, his arms and thighs shaking and failing to roll him away from the mess, but it was hopeless.

The mysterious vomit became worse, this time emerging as slimy chunks of flesh-colored globs falling in strings of strong elasticity, prolonging the horrendous gags that were surely tearing up the young man's throat. It went on for what felt like hours, but was probably three minutes at most. Gerard's voice was practically gone and he weakly allowed the nightmare to take its course, Mikey wheezing with an asthma attack just six feet behind his brother as a thin, yellow, watery fluid glazed the sickening pile before some unseen force finally knocked Gerard aside until he curled into a fetal position beside the mess. In an instant, Mikey felt himself crawling up to his brother, his shaky hands unable to replace his inhaler.

"Gee? Gee? Are you alive?" He cried, touching Gerard's face. He watched his brother blink up tiredly at him, body limp and heavy in the grass, his groans still very obvious beneath the sound of strong winds and neighborhood dogs howling.

"No, I died and went to Hell," Gerard mouthed, glad that Mikey found it in him to grab his older brother underneath his armpits and drag him at least a few feet away from the bile.

"Do you think you can stand up?" Mikey asked, frantic and abnormally high-pitched. Gerard groaned more as he rolled onto his stomach and slowly got back on his hands and knees. They were about to continue their task of rising to their feet until they noticed the disgusting vomit bubbling. Gerard and Mikey struggled to catch their breath as they blinked at the steaming, growing mound of flesh and blood forming before them, slowly rising from the ground like yeast. The older made an attempt to rub his sore stomach, choking on the remnants of questionable gunk caught in his throat.

"Dude..." Mikey croaked. "You just gave birth to a fucking demon-alien thing."

"That's what you're calling it? Because the way I see it, I just threw up every organ in my body," he cried, arms and legs giving out beneath him until he dropped on the grass with a dull thump, everything suddenly going black.


	4. It's a Zombie! It's a Man! It's...What is That?

         Gerard woke up to a few things poking into his sides, shoulder, and damp feet. Warm, wet grass tickled the bottom of his legs and his neck, and his body ached all over. He was too weak to move, and too tired to open his eyes, but he could still hear, smell, and feel. Boy, did he feel.

       "Is he dead?"

       More poking.

       "I think you're right, we should get our moms?"

       "Nah, he's not dead, he's sleeping. It's like he's drunk."

       "How do you know?"

       "My big brother gets drunk and forgets his bed's inside the house or something and he looks just like this."

       Internally, past the initial "ow" and confusion, Gerard laughed at the prepubescent voices not too far above him. It wasn't until what felt like a sharp branch poked too closely at his balls that he decided he needed to stir. Or at least confirm he was alive.

       "Boo," he lazily drawled, blinking his eyes open to dull sunlight. It was just the right amount of warm, but a cold, crisp morning wind quickly reminded him it was well into autumn. A plastic Iron Man mask and a young boy with a black superhero eye mask came into view.

       "See? Told you," adolescent Iron Man whispered to his friend. "Hey, trick 'r treat, got any candy?"

       Gerard groaned in response and ran a dirty hand down his equally dirty face.

       "Why are you in my backyard?" he yawned.

       "You mean, why are _you_?" Iron Man asked. Gerard didn't have an answer, for the kids nor himself. If anything, he was worried that the incredibly vivid dream he had turned out to be real. However, after turning his head slightly to both sides to inspect the yard, the even, clear grass and dilapidated swing set told him that yes, it was obviously a dream. Unable to provide a logical explanation, the teen silently held up his arms and wiggled them until the two young boys pulled him into a sitting position.

       "Isn't it too early to be trick 'r treating?" he asked with a frown as he struggled onto his feet. 

       "It's Halloween," Iron Man shrugged, like it was the most obvious explanation. Which it was. Gerard took a second to scrutinize the two young boys. They had to be no older than eleven or twelve. The Iron Man boy wore a full costume, the body piece equipped with padded bulges of fake iron carvings. The second young boy was on the thicker side, with bleach-blonde hair and fair skin, and he wore all black and remained quiet behind the black mask. All black, aside from a golden cape floating on the light winds behind him. Gerard couldn't help but grin. Despite his inability to interact with his schoolmates, children never failed to put him at ease. They could be a bit mean and insensitive sometimes, but overall, they were so playful, accepting, and hilariously-imaginative. Adults made Gerard skittish, and teenagers simply scared the shit out of him. 

       "We don't have any candy yet, I don't think," he shrugged. The blonde boy, Gerard noticed, never took his light blue eyes off of him, and he seemed to blink as often as he spoke. 

       "That's okay, we didn't really come here for candy anyway," Iron Man said before he decided to take a small walk around the yard, inspecting things that weren't there.

       "Yeah? Well, what did you come for then?"

       Finally, with an unexpected tone of excitement, the blonde boy spoke.

       "We're looking for your friend's dog."

 

**Hallow's Eve**

 

       For weeks, Bob Bryar had been begging his mom for a Superman costume. All the kids at his school were going to be dressed up the next day for the Halloween Fest, and he couldn't be the new kid and the only one without an awesome costume. They'd think he was a loser, and Bob didn't want to be a loser, he wanted to be a superhero. _The_ superhero. So when he expressed these feelings to his mom for the billionth time, she finally sighed with amusement before driving them out to the local Party City store.

When they got there, the only available Superman kit they found was for grown-ups, and it didn't even look cool. The cape was too shiny and weird, and looked like it was made out of his mom's old silk sheets. Spurred on by his disappointed pout, his mother got directions to the State Fair Halloween Store and took him there. He found the perfect Superman replica within seconds after he had zipped through the aisles with determination. It was just what he was looking for: a deep red, thick cape; a not-shiny blue suit with a sewn-in logo, not ironed on like the stupid adult one's. It was finally his, he just knew it. 

       Except, it wasn't. His mother took one look at the forty-three-dollar price sticker and made the same stretchy face she did when they went grocery shopping without the right coupons or she got those boring letters in the mail. And Bob just knew it was a "no". Sure, he sort of understood they couldn't have the things most people did, especially since they moved to Belleville, New Jersey just a few months ago. He ate Pirate Jewels instead of Cap'n Crunch. He drank Peptic Bismuth instead of Pepto Bismol when he got a stomach ache. His shoes never had names or symbols on them. Not ones he saw on the commercials, anyway. And he was fine with that. But, this was different. He _needed_ that Superman costume. He was finally fitting in at school and it was his chance to be more than the quiet, chubby boy. Plus, his new friend Patrick was going to be Iron Man!

       "I'm sorry, honey, but...Not this year, okay? If I could, I would, but-,"

       "It's okay," he said quietly, staring down at the plastic-wrapped package as she ran her fingers through his blonde locks. She was sorry. She always did that when she felt bad. Usually, he'd lift his head and reassure her with a small smile or a joke, but he just couldn't. 

       "Bobby..." She sighed again, resting her hands on her hips. "Honey, it doesn't mean you can't get a costume. You can go as something else. We'll figure it out. Okay?"

       Eyes still downcast, the twelve-year-old nodded and squeezed sadly at the costume kit. The "S" teasingly rippled in small folds at him, and all he wanted to do was go back home and hit his pillows until he got bored, or hungry. A part of him just knew he was being childish. Not a lot of boys his age cared so much about being dressed up after comic book characters, but this was his last year to be a kid, and he wanted to take advantage of that.

       "Okay...I'll be over in the clearance section, alright?"

       "Alright."

       He saw her legs disappear down the aisle in the corner of his eye before dragging his sneakers down the Superhero aisle to replace the costume. He did it slowly. Longingly. It was just right there! It got to the point where the "S" started to convince him it stood for "steal me". If his mom weren't there, he'd definitely obey.

       "Why can't _she_ steal it?" he grumbled, crossing his arms over his Ninja Turtle hoodie.

       "Stealing is a bad, bad thing, you know."

       Bob jumped at the sudden voice behind him. When he turned around, he found himself staring up at an older man. He was slightly pale and had a dark brown beard-and-mustache around a nice smile. As Bob took in the mans suit and tie, he thought of his teachers. 

       "Sure, you could steal it for Halloween," the man nodded. Then he kneeled down so that he was basically shorter than Bob, to inspect the costume, and whispered, "But Christmas comes around and then, what? Santa has you on the 'Boys Who Do Bad, Bad Things' list."

       Bob blinked at the man and his neatly-trimmed sideburns. He didn't exactly look dangerous, but the young boy's attended too many "Don't Talk to Strangers" speeches at his school to respond.

       "My mother couldn't get me better costumes when I was your age, neither," he muttered.

       "Really?" Bob couldn't help himself. Maybe this man could help him. Something about him was...fascinating. Which Bob found funny, because he really thought any grown-up in a suit was boring. He talked to Bob like he was an equal, like he was talking to another adult, a friend...despite the fact that he mentioned Santa, who Bob knew for sure wasn't real. Maybe. Anyway, he felt safe enough. There were many people in the huge store, and he was only a few turns away from his mom. And he threw a mean punch. He'd been practicing his ninja fighting skills in his room, for years. 

       "What did you want to be?"

       The man grinned, shaking his head as a couple inspected something just inches away from his head. 

       "I wanted to be a warlock. A wizard."

       "A wizard?" Bob squinted with a criticizing tone. "Like, Dumbledore?"

       This made the man laugh, reaching up to scratch idly at his fuzzy chin.

       "I wish we had Harry Potter back then. But, no, just a wizard. Robe, wand, pointy hat..."

       "What did you do?" Bob asked, reaching up to point at the Superman costume again.

       "Me? I just became one instead," he shrugged, nonchalant. His face showed no sign of lying. Bob was used to adults patronizing him with silly information and odd explanations. He wasn't dumb. Babies came from a "vagina" and a penis. A divorce meant two people didn't love each other anymore. When people muttered "shit" and "fuck" on the phone or TV, they were really upset, or really excited. But wizards? No, Bob definitely wasn't dumb. 

       "Why don't you become your own superhero?" the man frowned, matching Bob's skeptical one, only his was with a curious smile. 

       Bob shrugged.

       "I like his cape," he threw out. Of course he loved everything about Superman, but the cape was without a doubt his favorite part of his costume. 

       The man's features lit up as he stood back up, making him look ten times more approachable. 

       "Ah! The cape, huh? That's awesome, I love his cape, too," he chuckled. After a pause, in which the stranger tapped his fingers to his chin in thought at the waiting boy, he nodded.

       "Tell you what. Just get a cape, kid. Here," he instructed, pulling a rolled-up cape from a higher shelf and tampering with the end of it. It was a golden-yellow, and looked as thick and realistic as the Superman one. Bob watched the man close it back up with a focused look in his eyes, spinning it around on his long fingers. 

       "Go as your own superhero. Golden Boy or something-Hey, give me a break, I'm bad at making up names, alright?" he added at Bob's amused face. Bob was reluctant, because the color was just... not Superman-like. 

       "Trust me, kid," the man urged. "You want this one. I understand, you want a cool costume. And nothing is cooler than being yourself."

       Bob's mother tisked at the wrapping on the cape when he returned to her with it. She was already becoming irritated at having to put back all of the costume alternatives she collected for him in the costume shop. So when they finally rung up the package after an "Are you sure, ma'am? It seems to have been torn open", a much-deserved discount, and a plain black eye mask, the mother and son were relieved to be back in their home. 

 

       Later on Hallow's Eve, as the street lamps began to ignite, Bob and Patrick "flew" though his hallways with their own versions of a theme song that involved a lot of humming and imitated drum beats bouncing off of the walls. Bob's mother sat at the island in the kitchen with Mrs. Stump, lazily rubbing her feet from a busy day and particularly-aggravating traffic. Patrick's mother busied herself with carving out the house's fourth pumpkin, though her work was becoming slightly careless after a fourth glass of wine. Their voices, though tired, were warm and lighthearted, laughs occasionally intermingling with their sons' enthusiastic outbursts. 

       It was about to be nine o'clock, and the "women and children" half of the Stumps decided to have a girls' night in-slash-sleepover at the Bryars'. They had carved pumpkins, seen the newest Halloween animation at the theatre, eaten roasted pumpkin seeds and slices of pizza, and planned out their own roles in the annual Halloween Fest. The best part, in Bob's opinion, was that the three of them helped him put his costume together. Everyone was having fun, and even their moms began to do their own renditions of the Monster Mash as it blasted through the kitchen. It would have been embarrassing for the boys, if they weren't so busy laughing and shouting and joining in. For the first time, the Bryar house wasn't heavy with the feeling of stress and melancholy. Elizabeth and Bob Bryar were smiling bigger than they had in months, and the young boy just knew it was going to be the best Halloween ever. It already was. He was going to love this town. 

       The house soon became quiet, with only the light buzz of the living room television accompanying the women's tipsy ramblings as the boys pretended to get ready for bed in Bob's attic room. With an entire floor seperating them from their mothers, Patrick found it safe to pull out the scary movies he had snuck out of his older brother's room. One of them had a bunch of teenage girls bunched up on a blanket with frightened looks on their faces, while the other one was a classic that Bob knew all too well.

       "Slumber Party Massacre, or the Chucky doll?" Patrick whispered. They settled on Child's Play, just in case they got caught, because "this party one has boobs in it!" and there was no way their mothers were going to go easy on them. Plus, Bob wasn't ready for boobs, not really. He just wanted a good scare. An hour into the movie, the young boys were bundled under a blanket, giggling at each other's reactions and fighting the urge to fall asleep.

       After what seemed like seconds, Bob was jolted out of his sleep to harsh whispering in his ear and something shaking his body. He gasped awake and blinked up at his red-headed friend, remembering where he was. 

       "I wasn't asleep," he immediately lied, rubbing his eyes. The Child's Play DVD menu was replaying on the game console, and he could tell that Patrick had fallen asleep too. The real question was, why was he waking him up? 

       "Whatever. There's something happening outside," Patrick whispered a little more loudly. "And there was a scream."

       "It was just the TV," Bob sighed, sitting up to look for his controller and get rid of the horrible flashing that repeatedly stabbed into the comfortable darkness of the attic. 

       "No, I swear, there are guys outside, look!"

       Patrick hopped off of the bed and ran to the window. Bob slowly followed, Patrick's hand impatiently flopping for him to catch up as he glued his eyes on a specific spot outside. The wide window looked out into their backyard, and was high enough to allow a view of more than a section of their neighbors'. Bob was prepared for it to be a tree, or a prank, or a decoration. What he didn't expect was to see the two teenage boys from the house on the left on their hands and knees in their backyard, freaking out. The one Bob's seen many times, a tall, skinny boy with glasses and cool shirts he never recognized, crawled backyards so that his back was facing the houses. Bob was confused for a second until he saw why. The other teenager, the one who reminded Bob of Edward Scissorhands and rarely was seen, was throwing up. A lot. And it didn't look like your average mess, either. It was steaming and moving as the young man fell beside it.

       "Gross!" Patrick breathed, leaving a patch of fog on the window that Bob hastily wiped away for a better view. The other teen dragged the sick one away, to Bob's relief, and soon the vomitous pile began to grow.

       "What is that?" Patrick panicked. "Is it...What _is_ that? Should we go get our moms?"

       "Shh! Look!"

       The two boys returned their attention to the back yard. The boy with the glasses struggled to pull his brother's limp body into the house, before he finally gave up and ran inside. 

       "Shit!" Bob said "Is that a zombie coming out of the ground or something?" 

       Sure enough, there were arms reaching out of the pile , along with a head, and the boys were silently frozen into place, gaping at the body that was emerging. It was dark enough outside, but trying to pick out any details was impossible. The figure appeared to be male, and soon the wet pile was gone, having been soaked up into the mysterious form. It didn't stumble as it stood, nor did it appear to be interested in eating the passed-out teen in the yard. If anything, it seemed more interested in its own body, patting it down and frantically looking around, walking small circles around the yard.

       "That's not a zombie," Bob finally said, his voice shaking more than he expected.

       "Well, it's something. I'm getting mom, we'll call the cops-,"

       "Wait!" Bob whispered, grabbing Patrick's arm. The figure was on its knees, clawing at the same spot on the ground he came out of, and with the help of the dim porch light, Bob was able to see its face. The figure seemed to be crying, and appeared frightened. This went on for a minute before its face snapped right up to Bob's window, making the two boys jump. This time all three of them froze, Bob and Patrick's breath quickening, and the figure rose back to its feet before moving over to the wooden gate and climbing over it. At this, Patrick whimpered, but Bob watched with only a flash of panic as the man-thing began a similar inspection in his own backyard, occasionally throwing glances at the young boys in the window.

       "He's...looking for something."

       "Bob! Its a zombie! It's going to eat all of us, and you're just standing there, I'm scared!" Patrick was crying now, and wouldn't stay still under his friend's grip. Bob knew what they saw wasn't right, that something horrific was happening, but... He was more curious than frightened. And he felt just a sliver of disappointment in his friend, who was already thirteen years old. He expected him to be at least a bit braver than him. 

       "Stop being such a girl."

       "I'm not being a girl," Patrick frowned, immediately straightening up and wiping his face. 

       "Are too!"

       "Are not."

       "Fine, then come down there with me."

       Patrick didn't doing too well in the inconspicuous department when they made it downstairs. Sure, he had been shaking in his socks, but he couldn't help peering around the kitchen counters he hid behind, sweaty hands barely gripping Bob's baseball bat. The “zombie thing” was just standing there, still as a statue, barely even a centimeter of glass separating itself from Bob. Bob, who silently stared back at it from the safe side of the sliding doors. Getting past their mothers hadn't been too easy. For one, Patrick couldn't stop panting like a dehydrated dog, and didn't understand the concept of “gosh, Patch, stop bumping into me”, which he would have found funny if they weren't walking towards a creepy, possibly-hungry monster. They were fine, though. The women were knocked out on the couch, blue and purple flashes of neglected commercials washing over their drooling mouths as they slumped on each other.

       Then there was Bob, who wasn't sure how he felt, but knew exactly how he was supposed to be feeling. Frightened, obviously. Something just crawled out of his neighbor's yard-out of his neighbor!-on Halloween, and all but four people knew about it at this point. This just wasn't supposed to happen in the real world! Every horror film Bob had seen told him to shake his mother awake, grab a kitchen knife, run for his life, call the cops, anything but what he was doing now. On the other hand, horror films also taught Bob just how eagerly zombies rushed towards their food, how suave vampires stalked their prey, and how evil demons and monsters from the underworld sneered. In other words, none of those things looked like a confused young man in a leather vest.

       “Bob...Bob,” Patrick whispered a few feet behind him. “Are you still there? Are you okay? What's it doing to you?”

       “Nothing,” Bob answered quietly, eyes still on the...man-thing? The man-thing squinted at Bob, and rested a gloved hand on its hip, fingers wrapping around something silver and bulky. Taking that as a bad sign, Bob slowly raised his index finger, indicating for the stranger to halt, and was surprised to see it reluctantly drop its hand back to his side. The man-thing was only visible because of a distant light in the alley, but he was sure he saw it-him mouth words. After a pause, he did it again, jerking his head away from the house. He wanted Bob to come outside. He could do that. He could totally do that. Carefully holding up his other hand, Bob inched towards the lock, his heartbeat reverberating throughout his body as his instincts fought between “don't be stupid” and “go for it”.

       “Bob?” Patrick repeated, completely forgetting about their rule of not talking too much in the kitchen.

       “I'll be right back,” Bob whispered, rolling his eyes at the whimper from his friend. The one night something cool happened, he got stuck with a wimp. The click of the lock echoed through the kitchen as loudly as a pin dropping, and the answering snores from the living room were all Bob needed to slide open the door just wide enough for his body. Immediately, the man-thing stepped back for Bob. It was surprisingly calm outside. The wind was a quiet exhale, replaced with the typical late-night soundtrack of crickets and rustling leaves. It did, however, feel colder. When Bob cautiously stepped out and slid the door shut, he didn't let go of the edge. The two of them stood shivering and staring at each other, just like before, only this time it was sort of awkward and a little more threatening. He wasn't sure what to say to the...

       “What are you?” Bob's mouth asked before he could think about it.

       “You're a human,” it replied, as if making a confirmation. It-he sounded, well, normal. The voice was deep, slightly-shaky, a little defensive, but normal-ish. Bob was expecting something raspy and vindictive. This added to his courage, and gave him a little relief, but he was still on his toes.

       “Yeah, what are you?”

       The man-thing frowned at him. He looked like he wanted to hit Bob, like the young boy asked a stupid question. Bob matched his expression immediately, and the man-thing's expression softened, just a bit.

       “I know there are others in your house. Why aren't they coming out? Do you have Scumbone-,”

       “Whoa, what?” the kid asked, clutching onto the door tighter.

       “My dog, do you have him? Someone must have taken him, I know you saw it.”

       Dog? Bob expected the man-thing to make demands. Take me to your leader, that kind of thing. Not ask about a domestic pet. But so far, the interaction didn't seem to be leading towards a painful death for the young boy just yet, so Bob appreciated as much normalcy as he could get.

       “I have no idea what you're talking about. There's no dog."

       Bob had to scrunch his face up to avoid sneezing from the sudden itch in his nose. The man-thing reeked, worse than the kids no one wanted to sit by in school. Some of them smelled like armpit, or butt, ones who never brushed their teeth tended to laugh and breathe in everyone's face as often as they could. But this thing standing before Bob took the cake, made his nose sting. Yeah, he was definitely going to sneeze. So he did. He wasn't sure why he was surprised to see the man-thing pull a gun on his from the sudden outburst. Bob was finally petrified, frozen in place with his hand hovering over his mouth.

 

       Meanwhile, in the house, Patrick grew even more nervous, which he didn't think was possible. He knew he should have followed his classmates' advice and left the intimidating new kid alone. It's just when he saw Bob staring blankly at Pete and the guys toss a football back and forth after lunch, he had to run up to him and hand him one of his ear buds, make him stop looking so bored and lost, because Patrick knew what it was like to be new in school, in town. Patrick was a nice kid. Now look where being nice got him: hiding in the stupid jerk's kitchen at four-thirty in the morning on Halloween.

       True to his habit, he glanced around the counter again. Bob was talking to the stranger, it seemed. Or, begging for his life, it was hard to tell just staring at his back. Great. Just great. Patrick sat back in his spot with a huff, coming up with escape plans. Would hopping over the dining table be faster than sliding underneath it to get to the living room?

       Another glance around the counter showed Bob raising both of his hands in front of him as the man-thing held a gun limply in its hand.

       Shit!

       Okay, the bat was heavy, but the butcher knives sitting beside the oven looked pretty sharp...only that would mean he'd have to get closer to the...the...

       Patrick jumped at the clatter the bat made when it dropped out of his shaky hands. His legs were jello. His entire body was jello. He needed to move, he needed to do something. He needed to get ready to fight!

       He glanced around the counter one last time to check if the coast was clear, and almost screamed at what he saw.

       The coast was clear. Too clear. Bob was gone. The man-thing was gone.

       It got him!

       He felt his body running to the living room (which didn't involve the dining table at all, as he had planned) before he was suddenly on top of his mother and her equally-groggy friend.

       “Mom! Mom, help, there's a freaky zombie thing that just crawled out of the fricken next door neighbors' yard and it took Bob and now it's coming for us!”

       That's what he was trying to say.

       Instead, it came out as, “Mommmyyyyy! Help meeeee!”

       “Jesus, Patrick, what is it?” his mother Patricia groaned, rubbing her eyes as Elizabeth stretched her arms and rose slowly to her feet.

       “Some-Something's outside, it's-I-And Bob! And we have to leave, we have to call Dad!”

       Elizabeth looked at Patricia and her son with concern this time, the two women finally snapping out of their relaxed state.

       “What happened? Where's Bobby?” Elizabeth asked, rushing towards the stairs. The other two followed closely behind her as she made her way up to the attic, Patricia nervously commenting on how easily-worked-up her son gets when he watches scary movies. The three of them stomped up the narrow staircase to Bob's room, whose door was wide open, and Patrick wouldn't have stopped his incoherent warnings if the boy in question wasn't sitting up in his bed with a sleepy, confused look on his face.

       “Bobby! Oh, Bobby, I was so...” Ms. Bryar covered her face with her hands and took a few deep breaths before walking over to her son and kissing the top of his head, grinning into his hair. Relief was only short-lived for Patrick's mother, once she saw that her suspicions were correct. There, on the television screen, was Chucky the doll, mercilessly stabbing a young man.

       “Patrick. Martin. Stump! What did I tell you about sneaking around with Kevin's movies?” she all but yelled, punching random buttons on the game console controller to put an end the bloody mess happening before their eyes. After a few seconds, Elizabeth took it in her own hands and swiftly stopped the film, bending down to pluck the offending disc out of the player.

       “A few rounds of Pac Man after work comes in handy,” she joked, handing the movie to her friend. As the women exchanged lighthearted comments, Patrick finally remembered to blink and snap his mouth shut at the sight of the boy who he thought was missing. There was Bob, in the flesh, messy bed hair and all, underneath his blankets, looking completely clueless about the sudden interruption.

       “What's wrong, Patch?” he asked over a yawn.

       “Nothing's wrong, Bobby. My son here just got a little fright from a movie he claims he's old enough to handle,” Patricia replied, shaking her head with both amusement and pity. At least she wasn't too angry. That's always good.

       “Well,” Elizabeth sighed, raising her eyebrows at her wristwatch. “It's five-eighteen. That gives us about five more hours of sleep until we have to help set up for the Halloween festival. You're more than welcome to stay, if he's not too scared.”

       Patrick frowned at her tone. She made it seem like he was one of those toddlers people have to carry out of the auditorium at the movie theatre. He couldn't really blame her for it. He did kind of act like a total baby about, well, everything. It was easily the most embarrassing freakout any thirteen-year-old could ever have. And even though he thought his actions and crying were completely justified...he wasn't sure what to think anymore. Everything in the past hour and a half...did happen, right? Did he just dream it all up? Did he sleepwalk, or...?

       “I'm fine, I just, I guess I had a bad nightmare or something? Sorry,” Patrick finally said, lowering his head to avoid everyone's stare. Yeah, definitely embarrassing.

       “Do you want to sleep in the guest room with me?” Patricia asked quietly.

       “Mom,” he groaned. Bob chuckled from his bed as his own mother bent down to kiss the top of his head one more time.

       “Okay, okay, goodnight. Really, this time. Bob will protect you,” Patricia teased, nudging him with her hip as she followed Elizabeth out of the room. The women's voices faded away as Bob's expression slipped into something resembling a smirk.

       “That's right, Patch. Super-Bob will protect you,” he grinned, climbing out of his bed. Patrick remained silent for a few minutes, still unsure of what to say, of how to explain what just happened.

       “Shut up,” he finally sighed, watching his friend adjust the television so that it displayed MTV Halloween specials on mute. “I thought you were...I mean, something weird just happened, I think.”

       Bob didn't reply, just shrugged and started pulling on his Halloween costume.

       “What are you doing?”

       “Getting ready for Halloween.”

       “But...what about sleep?” the redhead frowned, plopping down on Bob's bed. It was cold, no warm spot, he noticed.

       “There's no way I'm going back to sleep after what just went down,” Bob said quietly. “We have to take care of some things.”

       Patrick hopped to his feet and shuffled to the attic window where, sure enough, the teenage boy was still passed out in the backyard. His bare limbs were spread out in all directions, mouth hanging open. He looked like all of the life had been sucked out of him. He groaned even louder after realizing that Bob pulled one over on all of them.

       “So, it all really did happen.”

       “Uh, yeah, you saw it yourself. How could you even think it didn't?”

       “I guess I just wanted to believe that we lived in world where zombies didn't crawl out of the ground and kidnap my friends.”

       “I wasn't kidnapped.”

       “What happened to you? I saw the freak pull a gun out on you and you both were gone! How did you even get up here?”

       Bob rolled his eyes and dragged his feet to join Patrick at the attic window, which he slowly pushed out to reveal the broken latch.

       “But, what? How did you climb up here?”

       “I didn't, I hauled-ass up the stairs as soon as I saw you scream and run to the living room.”

       Patrick narrowed his eyes at him. He didn't scream. He thinks he didn't, at least.

       “Look, don't-,” Bob cut himself off, deciding it's way too late to tell Patrick not to freak out or panic. The idea of easing him into the next bit of information was pretty much hopeless. He decided to just give it to him straight.

       “Patch, sit down,” Bob said in a careful tone, waiting for the other boy to comply. “Alright. The thing is, the thing I was talking, he's harmless...sort of. I think. He's lost and doesn't know where he is, and he needs to find his, um, friend. He climbed up here himself, we needed to get him inside so our moms wouldn't see. We were both gonna go through the kitchen but you were gonna shit yourself, so I thought my window would be easier for him-,”

       “Wait wait wait, the zombie's in your room, that's what you're telling me,” Patrick interrupted, going still at the sound of Bob's closet door creaking open.

       “I'm not a fucking zombie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been a butt and haven't updated in what seems like years, but I have a new laptop now, so... Yay? (blushes/hides)


	5. Lost Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially out of the Writer's Block series. Buckle up. ;)

Scumbone wasn't dreaming. 

Scumbone never dreamt, he just willed himself to a state of unconsciousness until he was hungry, or needed. He felt the same way he always did after travelling: a slight burn scratching at the roots of his coal-black fur, numb paws, and momentary dizziness. The feeling only lasted for a few seconds before he was able to shake out his small body and adjust to the soil and grass that would eventually cool him off as he rolled around for a bit. (Unless, of course, their arrival was immediately interrupted.)

So the creature was beyond shocked to find himself in a bathroom sink. A relatively clean one, at that, surrounded by white walls and a shower and oddly-shiny surfaces. It wasn't normal, obviously, and he had to find his companion, quick. Quietly, Scumbone balanced his front paws on the edge of the sink, and jumped, his claws sliding around in the porcelain in the process. He broke his neck against the edge of the nearby toilet seat before landing on a slippery, wet tiled floor. It didn't matter where of how he landed. It never did, because all he had to do was snap his bones back into place to go about his way. Of course, he wasn't sure what way that was, but a wide open door a few feet before him was a good start.

He crept onto the dark brown lumpy carpet of the adjacent room. It appeared to be sleeping quarters, an apartment, a room. Rumpled bed. A cubic viewing device for entertainment. Reading materials. Strange boxes and cases. Small ceiling light. Clothing, thrown carelessly on various surfaces. Two staircases, one stone leading up to slanted wooden doors and half-closed; the other staircase, wooden, leading up to a a normal, upright door. Basement, he noted. Scumbone attempted to figure out the why and how of the situation, which staircase he should begin with, until he sniffed and was shocked for the second time at the smell of, well, everything.

Stale sweat. Old vegetables and dried animal carcass. Unnatural sugars. Heated battery acid. Distant wet grass and hints of manure emitted from the bottoms of various shoes, attached to the smell of worn rubber and plastic. In an attempt to mask it all was the sting of something sweet, Scumbone's nose proving the source to be a can of something called "Febreeze". What he couldn't smell was decaying humans, harsh chemicals, burning, rot, blood...and it put him off. Because this wasn't Jerney. He knew it, he could feel it. And worse, he couldn't smell Fun Ghoul.

The creature felt a familiar whine beginning deep down in his throat at the thought of Fun Ghoul not making it, that the ghoul finally did something reckless after weeks of silent moping. His friend had always been upset, and once their constant adventures were no longer there to keep him busy, it had gotten quite worse. Fun Ghoul thought he hid it well, but it was difficult for anyone to even attempt to hide things from Scumbone. As Hambone, he was also one of the few proteges of Dagon, the Demon of Deceit, and was able to aid those in need of a successful affair or swindle. He knew all of the signs of lying and evasion. Fun Ghoul's signs involved tucking his chin into his chest to avoid witnessing couples and lovers they passed on their strolls in the evening, and plastering a smile on his face when he found Scumbone looking up at him. His best friend, the dog concluded, was lonely. He needed something, someone, and when the pair laid themselves underneath a tree for a few hours, Fun Ghoul was most honest in the way he hugged himself with desperate tightness in his sleep.

"Fuck you. I get cold, too, you know," he had said the second he woke up to Scumbone's pitying stare. Which, yeah, Jerney was cold, but everyone was used to it. And the ghoul, despite the constant shivers, never complained before. 

A sudden whiff of fresh sweat and more wet grass snapped Scumbone out of his cogitation. It was accompanied with heavy panting as two long legs came stomping down the stone staircase. A stranger. A human, male, young. Tall, lanky, rattled, clearly on the brink of losing his mind, the young man was unknowingly crossing Scumbone's path towards the opposite stairs. He was the first sign of life the dog had seen, and he was moving too quickly for Scumbone to grab his attention safely. He wanted to shout at the human. _Did you hurt him? Have you seen him? Where am I and who are you?_ Except, he couldn't speak, and the young man was on the second step. So Scumbone did the only thing he could do to stop him.

He barked.

 


	6. I Am Zombie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this loooong writers block resulted in a flood of unstoppable writing. Enjoy. (Trigger Warning: past suicide attempt)

            “My...friend?” Gerard squinted, trying to figure out if they had him mistaken for someone else. Gerard knew he had no friends, not really. They had to be referring to Mikey, only Mikey didn't have a dog. _In fact_ , Gerard thought, scratching behind his neck, _where_ is _Mikey?_

            “You know, the weird guy! He lost his dog, and we're helping him. We all think it's around here,” Little Iron Man shrugged.

            “I'm not awake enough for this,” Gerard whined, nearly choking on the last word from a dry throat. He ignored the back pain and the ache in his legs as he stretched on his feet, and gave a sharp shiver before shuffling towards his open basement door. The two kids wordlessly followed him, and he was going to protest, because _random kids_ in his _room_ and around his comics and _collectibles_ , until he saw his brother. Mikey was passed out on the floor just at the bottom of the stairs leading to the kitchen. He looked hot and clammy, a bit flushed, still breathing, but the dried blood that seemed to have seeped out of his ears and nose weren't a good sign.

            “What the fuck. Mikey?” Gerard screeched, rushing to his little brother's side. “Oh my god, Mikey, are you okay? Please wake up and tell me you're alright.”

            He managed to softly smack the side of his face with shaky hands, and in a few seconds, the younger boy blinked his eyes open and groaned, a sigh of relief surging throughout the room.

            “Gee?”

            “What happened to you? What...happened to us?”

            “What happened?” Mikey repeated with a bitter laugh, raising his eyebrows as best he could. “Let's just say I really hope I just hit my head on something and passed out last night.”

            Gerard frowned as he helped him into a sitting position.

            “I woke up outside, with no pants on.”

            Mikey tensed and squeezed his eyes shut.

            “I need my glasses. I think they fell somewhere,” he finally sighed.

            “Are these it?” the young boy in the cape asked, holding out a half-ruined pair of Coke-bottle prescriptions. Mikey took them reluctantly, throwing Gerard a confused look.

            “Who are they?”

            “Oh, sorry. I'm Bob,” the caped boy said, before his friend, Patrick, introduced himself as well.

            “Again, who are they?” Mikey asked Gerard, barely acknowledging the two trick 'r treaters standing next to his brother.

            “I don't know. They're looking for a dog or something.”

            “Shit,” Mikey whispered, dropping his forehead in one hand as the other shakily raised his inhaler to his lips. His palms, Gerard noticed, were filthy, with nasty little scratches deep enough to raise a few bubbles of blood over soon-to-be scabs. His jeans were ripped to shit at the knees. Looking down at himself, Gerard gasped at the bruises on his own bare legs, skin stained with grass and rubbed raw and dry. He was so lost in his observations that it took him a while to realize the basement wasn't as quiet as it should have been. Among the puffs of Mikey’s inhaler and ruffles of leaves still blowing into the basement was rhythmic scratching coming from nearby. The bathroom door. Twelve feet from where they were sitting on the floor. And it seemed to be jammed shut with Gerard’s bedside table.

            “Listen...I need to explain something to you, and you're gonna have to take my word for it, alright? We just need to get out of this basement. Right now.”

            “That’s fine. You’re sure you’re okay to walk?”

            “I’m fucking zombie,” Mikey huffed, letting six arms yank him to his feet.

 

_Gerard remembered every detail. He couldn’t forget if he wanted to. Lord knows he’d tried hundreds of times, lying in bed, hoping for a mind that wouldn’t force him to wake up in the middle of the night, soaked in cold sweat, hair dripping, heart aching from the overexertion of panic._

_He remembered the carpet of his old bedroom on his back. His pulse slowing down to heavy knocks beneath his sternum. The combination of harsh sun and ceiling light didn’t feel bright enough against the red of his eyelids. He tried to frown, but couldn’t move. Didn’t move. Didn’t want to move. His body was no longer his, long gone after the knocking had faded. His eyes explored his walls. Comic book cover art._ I should’ve drawn something for Mikey _. Re-Animator poster. Taking Back Sunday flyer._ Fuck. Such a good show…wasted my life _. He blinked, and his walls were bare._ Should’ve…No, should and would don’t matter anymore. _Blinked again, the posters were back._ Mind’s tricking me. Not scared. Feels good. This is like falling asleep. This is death.

_Black._

_He remembered his parents screaming. Even Dad. His eyes began to flood from the sound. His gurney bumped into the edge of the bench of the ambulance from his mother rushing in to ride. Her violet lipstick was on the backs of her hands, and on the ends of her crinkly blonde hair. His gurney bumped into a vacant wheelchair as a male and female nurse whipped him out of his mother’s sight in the hospital. Lightening in his stomach. Thunder in his chest, under his damp Bauhaus t-shirt. The female nurse rattled off the pills he took, mundane beside the gray ball of chewing gum in her mouth. “Oh great,” male nurse said, rolling his eyes, “another one of_ these _.”_

_Black again._

_He remembered coming back to life, ashamed, angry, mortified. Mikey’s head twisting around their parents’ as they kept him outside. It was the first thing he’d seen. Mikey’s face. And he smiled, sadly, but calmly, Mom and Dad following his eyes to see their first son’s staring back at them._

_“He’s awake!”_

_Bland food. Asparagus soup. The woman in the psych ward who kept asking for hard candy when she wasn’t supposed to have it. The headaches. The weird little cup in the toilet. The tree paintings, and the man who claimed they were all photographs of his front yard. His parents sitting at his table, not knowing what exactly to say to him, aside from commenting on the cheesy television commercials. “Eat your food, honey.” “Are you sleeping?” He snapped once. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t insane._

_He remembered finally feeling happy to wake up._

_One week and Gerard was free. His parents resumed work, knowing he couldn’t stand seeing them every single day. Couldn’t stand the forced conversation, silences, exaggerated smiles._

_“Fuck you, I’m coming to see you as much as I can,” Mikey sighed, tossing a bag of music magazines on the table as Gerard picked at his tray._

_“No Fangoria?”_

_“Mom wouldn’t let me…She’s weird about horror, or anything relating to it around you, like it’s gonna set something off,” Mikey frowned. “Told her, that’s not how it works.”_

_“Yeah. I brought up a zombie movie last time she visited and she nearly had a heart attack, she was so uncomfortable.”_

_“Right. If anything,_ you _are a zombie. Fucking died and then came back to life-,”_

 _It went silent as Gerard froze over his food, staring at his younger brother. Mikey reluctantly smirked, and it was the very first time since he had woken up that anyone in his family brought up why he was there in the first place. It wasn’t a “situation”, or “that day”. He did die and come back. He was a zombie. And he was kind of okay. He was going to_ be _okay. He was going to make it, to the end. He just knew it._

_“That…is the coolest thing I’ve heard all week. Thank you, Mikey.”_

_He placed his hand on the table, between them, before Mikey’s joined it and squeezed, face stretching into a smile to match Gerard’s._

_“Thank you,” he said again, wishing his eyes wouldn’t get so wet for at least one damn visiting hour. They continued lunch in silence, flipping through their magazines, spilling food and crumbs on the pages._

_“You know…how awesome would_ I Am Zombie _be as a band name?”_

_“Or a comic.”_

 

            “Hold on, I need a cup of coffee and some cushion for this,” Gerard announced as he entered the living room. The two young boys and his brother took to swinging their legs back and forth, picking through the candy bowl at the dining room table nearby. Mikey was practically gnawing what little he had left of his fingernails on the couch, flipping through the channels of the television. He was clearly on edge. Gerard was too, only the quick shower he forced himself to take was refreshing enough to convince him otherwise. Upon his return, everyone perked up, Mikey following him to the kitchen.

            “Gee…” he said in an impatient tone.

            “Mikey…if you expect me to process what I just heard with a clear mind, give me a minute, okay?”

            “Can I get a cup of coffee, too?” Bob asked from the table as his neighbors sat down to join them.

            “What are you, like ten? No,” Mikey scoffed. Despite his complaints, he had gotten a mug of his own.

            “Twelve, actually.”

            “Uh, guys? Remember, end of the world happening?” Patrick interrupted.

            “Not the end of the world, calm down,” Bob muttered.

            “Dude, did you see what I fucking saw or not?”

            “Boys!” Gerard finally cut in. All eyes bounced back to him, waiting.

            “Let me just get this straight. Okay. You are telling me, that you all watched me vomit like crazy in my backyard, just for a man to crawl out of it-“

            “It’s not a man-,”

            “-and out of all things, this man is looking for a damn dog. And that you got attacked by a dog, a tiny one, that you found in the basement…and said dog may belong to this man…a man, I repeat, that you watched my vomit turned into.”

            The house, aside from the low hum of the living room television, was silent and the three boys met each other’s eyes and nodded in agreement.

            “And he’s been on the loose for a while, but is …back in Bob’s attic, right now. Because despite this being a zombie-man-thing, you trust him.”

            More nods.

            “I’ve heard some outrageous Halloween pranks in my day, but at least some of them were kind of believable,” he chuckled into his cup.

            “Gee, when have I ever been the pranking type, hmm? Look at my fucking hands. I can barely hear, I’m shouting for fuck sake! I haven’t gotten a second of rest, my body hurts, I just watched you go through some outrageous shit! This isn’t a joke.”

            “Okay, say it isn’t fully a joke. Who’s to say you guys aren’t just being pranked? It was dark out, maybe it’s some neighborhood freak pulling one over on you.”

            “Oh, and you just happen to start sleepwalking overnight? And blacking out?”

            “I didn’t black out!”

            “Oh yeah? What did you do last night?”

            “I-Uh…”

            Gerard was getting clammy again, pulse quickening. Physically, aside from some bruises and scrapes, he could say he felt fantastic. But he couldn’t remember a single thing about last night that pointed to normal. He recalled pacing a lot, but not hy. He remembered running outside and crying out in their backyard, yet couldn’t figure out order of which these things happened. It was a blur, for sure, a smudge in his memory.

            Not to mention, looking at his younger brother, there was no denying the sincerity in his hazel eyes, wide behind scratched glasses, askew from a missing leg. He liked those glasses, only a serious incident would distract him from letting them get in the awful state they were in. This was the kid who went to hardcore shows and emerged without a hair out of place.

_Maybe…_

            Hell, he couldn’t even clutch onto _maybe_. All signs pointed to a long fucking night.

            “Oh god,” Gerard groaned, resting his eyes in the palm of his hand and his elbows perched on the table. “If this isn’t true…you are no longer my brother, Mikeyway.”

            “If this isn’t true, we have more concerning matters at hand. Like my sanity. Or a very convincing psycho in Bob’s house.”

            They were so occupied with their one-on-one that they didn’t take much notice when the object of their latter worries had gravitated towards the television with his friend. Their heads were barely visible from Gerard and Mikey’s view behind the couch. It didn’t matter. What had taken over the morning Charlie Brown Halloween special immediately stole their attention as well. The two were in the living room before their next breath.

 

***

 

            “Who the hell would do something like this?”

            “I don’t know, ma’am, but the sick fuck-I’m sorry, the crazy individual, if not a group of them, left them all untouched. The bodies, I mean. Except, of course, this fresh plot right over here. An Alexander Thompson, buried two nights ago, following a service.” 

            Marion Azuza frowned harder as her assistant dabbed a sponge of concealer on her face, knowing the wrinkling would mean another layer of makeup to even it out. Ignoring the tisks, she adjusted her blazer.

            “See any potential enemies or weirdos at the funeral?”

            “I don’t know, miss, you’d have to ask the family. I strictly keep the grounds in order, usually in the evenings, and at night.”

            “Oh screw it, they’re probably already torn up as it is, the last thing they need is us breathing down their necks for a story,” she sighed, readjusting her blazer.

            “Fifteen seconds,” her cameraman, Bert, announced, motioning before his lens. Clutching onto her mic, Marion swept her eyes over her surroundings, of two other local stations’ camera crews already reporting. The officers were in an aggressive game of Red Rover with grieving, angry family and friends, concerned pedestrians, and unauthorized photographers. She positioned herself off to the far right, so that the camera could catch the line of ten graves behind her, sloppily yet deeply dug up, revealing caskets of various conditions. It was a shit-show. It was chaos, it was completely unethical. It was exactly what Channel Six needed.

            “Is my hair okay?”

            “Alright, three, two…”

            With Bert’s signal, and a deep breath, Marion put on her best face: stern yet empathetic.

            “Breaking Channel Six news, I am back with a few updates. We are here in Belle Pointe Cemetery, where an investigation has emerged after local groundskeeper Billie Armstrong found over twenty-five graves unearthed. The most disturbing of all is who we have recently identified as Alexander Thompson, whose casket, not having been buried for a week, has been reopened, and whose body appears to have been tampered with. All bodies seem to have been left with in their original state, with no signs of thievery or further vandalism. The culprits’ tools used to do this are unknown, as well as motive. Whether this is a disturbing Halloween prank gone too far, or something else entirely, this may be one of the strangest, more unsettling morning reports we’ve delivered in years. We will be keeping you informed throughout the day, but for now, we urge anyone who has any leads or ideas on who has committed this awful crime to please come forward. Until then, be safe, and keep your children under a watchful eye. I am Marion Azuza, and this is Channel Six News.”

            With that, Bert gave a thumbs up, the light beside his handle switching to green.

            “How was it?”

            “Well, your tits look perkier than usual, I’d say it’s a win,” he smiled, dodging her arm swinging a thick microphone towards his face.

            “Just get some more shots, and I’ll go ask around a bit more. Oh, and pan over the crowd by the officers, too. Gotta get those faces. If there aren’t tears, shove that camera up your ass.”

            “I was planning on doing that anyway,” he shrugged, heading towards the closest grave and crouching beside it, steadily hovering it just a foot above the soil.

 

***

 

            “Question,” Gerard said as the four of them entered the Bryar house through the sliding doors leading into the kitchen.

            “Mmh?” Bob asked, tossing a look over his shoulder as he lead them to the staircase.

            “Where the hell are your parents?”

            “With us. At our school.”

            “Huh? Do you have twins or something?”

            “Nah, it’s a carnival thing. Goes on all day, all ages, very crowded. We went with them, caught the shuttle bus back to the neighborhood,” Bob shrugged.

            “Right. Totally smart, totally safe,” Mikey scoffed. Obviously the sarcasm didn’t faze the young boy, who threw a smug smile at them as they rounded the second floor’s corner to face the door to the attic. Unlike the Ways’ house, the house wasn’t unsettlingly quiet. There was a radio that had been left on an indie music station way down in the living room, still faintly heard on the next floor, on top of the distant voices from a television blaring in an unknown room. This still didn’t stop Gerard and Mikey from feeling uneasy.

            Without hesitation, the youngest of the group twisted the knob so that the door swung wide open, and raced up the stairs, immediately exchanging muffled words with the source of scattering footsteps they’d been catching. The semi-reveal was completely without fanfare, very casual. Gerard and Mikey didn’t understand what they were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. The next to ascend the attic stairs was Patrick. The kid, though jumpy, had a calmness about him that was nothing short of reassuring. Secretly, Gerard felt half guilty that they didn’t lead the way to talk to what could be a potential mental institution escapee, or worse, an evil force with two innocent children under hypnosis of some sort. The non-guilty part of him felt relief, with a hint of bravery.

            There was nothing to be scared of. Yet.

            Gerard watched Mikey try to straighten his glasses before heading up to the attic, too, quickly joining him. He barely made it to the top before Mikey began whispering “holy shit, Gee”. This caused him to pause on the stairs, wondering if it was something awful, if he had to spin around and rush to a phone and dial 9-1-1.

            “What?” he hissed, noticing that the talking had stopped. No movement, aside from Mikey’s mouth falling open once he reached the landing. “Holy shit what?”

            “Gerard…I…I don’t know how to…Holy shit.”

            Unable to take the suspense, he rushed to the top, clumsily bumping into his brother. The room was bright. High ceilings, though unfinished, the main window large and flooding the entire attic with golden sunlight, shadows of a tree in the backyard sliding leaves’ shadows over a twin bed and fold-out cot. The decorations were sort of typical for a boy Bob’s age, if not a bit heavy on the superhero attention. On a normal day, Gerard would comment on a couple of things, probably compliment the kid’s interests, would initiate a big brother task in taking him under his wing comic-wise.

            Except, his mind stops operating past the figure leaning against the wall opposite the window, still and tense, a careful glare in its- _his_ eyes, defensive. This man-thing. Black, choppy hair. Large, hazel eyes under arched brows. Pink mouth slightly open to reveal sharpened teeth. Mustard-black striped top under a worn army vest of unknown material, its lettering the nonspecific yet unmistakable afterthoughts Gerard’s scribbled hundreds of times, stitched with time, a few threads loose because _this was a real vest_. And that skin, arms etched with a few specific trademarks, vague imagery bold yet obscured. Every detail.

 _Down to the gun_ , Gerard thought in awe, still unable to move from his spot, though desperate to close the seven feet of space between him and-and…fuck, he couldn’t even think it.

            “Holy shit is right,” he breathed. Finally breathed. Though it was rapidly picking up. This couldn’t possibly not be a dream. His chest burned, only just realizing the heart-in-stomach swoop was the cause of the fluttering that accompanied it. He was terrified, ecstatic, intrigued, in shock, going to pass out, going to yell at the top of his lungs. A dream, an illusion, a costume. This just couldn’t be.

            “You,” he whispered, voice cracking. “F-F…F-You’re…here…?”

            It- _He_ tilts his head at Gerard. The center of his fucking universe, this creature, sweet and deadly, hailing from Jerney, in the flesh. A living, breathing ghoul. His ghoul.

            “Gerard, is this…?”

            The second Mikey’s voice broke the moment, Gerard realized there was a moment to begin with. They had been staring at each other, his…creation and himself. There was a crackling in the air between them where utter stillness should have been. The two of them blinked, returning half of their attention to the rest of the boys in the room, eyes still boring into one another.

            “Are we missing something?” Bob asked, tugging on Gerard’s sleeve for an explanation. With a curt shush, Mikey reached forward and tugged Bob back by his cape, realizing this wasn’t a time for them to bombard and interrogate, or disturb whatever this was.

            “Do you…” Gerard licked his lips and cleared his drying throat, nearly feeling dizzy. His mind was overwhelmed with questions. Do you know who I am? Do you know where you came from? Do you understand you’re not supposed to be here?

            Only, he couldn’t ask any of these questions.

            He already knew the answers. He’d written these meetings dozens of times. He knew almost every possible negative outcome. He also knew the one question no one had dared to ask his antihero.

            “Do you, um…have a name? I’m Gerard. That guy over there, that’s my little brother, Mikey.”

            He waited, patiently, recognizing the inner turmoil in the ghoul’s eyes on whether to pull his weapon out or not. He settled on lowering his hands from the shoulder holster that held his stone blade and silver bullet gun. They clasped together just in front of his buckle, _carved out of human skull bone_ , Gerard noted, fiddling, unsure.

            “Fun Ghoul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter "I Am Ghoul" will be more Fun Ghoul-Gee-centric ;)


End file.
